Page 93 of The Wedding Menu

“Amelie, you’re freaking me out. Can you please—”

“I forgot how to have sex!” I burst. My heart is thumping in every inch of my skin, the pain in my shoulder intensifying by the second.

“You—” There’s a beat of silence. “That’s, hmm, fine. Come out of the bathroom. I’ll… show you, okay? I’ll show you how to have… sex.”

Oh, just kill me now.

“No, Ian, I forgot that to have sex you need to be naked.”

“You’re gorgeous, Amelie, don’t—”

“So I didn’t shave my legs.”

“Your… legs?” There’s a light chuckle this time. “It’s fine, beautiful. I never shave my legs.”

“But—but I needed to, so I took your razor.” He doesn’t say anything, and I can only pray he doesn’t deem it the huge invasion of privacy it feels like now that I say it out loud. “The problem is, I couldn’t find any soap or shaving cream.”

“They’re here. Open the door and I’ll hand them over.”

Holding back tears, I clean the butter off my hand on my hip, but when I try to pull myself up, I end up only causing a screeching pain on my shoulder as my fingers slide along the ceramic tub. Settling back down, I breathe out slowly. “I used butter.”

“Butter?”

“Butter,” I confirm. I’m almost numb, as if my brain has shut down from too much embarrassment.

“Is it a French cuisine chef thing? Do you guys always have butter on your person?”

“I had some from before, when—” With an eye roll, I look up at the ceiling. “Yes. Yes, it’s aFrench cuisine chef thing.”

“Well, what’s the problem? You’re just gonna have to wash off really well because, well, the smell.”

“The problem is butter is slippery. I fell in the tub and I hurt my shoulder. And now the door is locked and I can’t get up because, well… butter isreallyslippery.”

“You’rehurt?” The handle rattles again. “Why the fuck didn’t you start with that?”

I don’t know. Maybe I was hoping I’d find a solution in the meantime. It doesn’t look like he has one. He keeps trying to open the door.

When he stops, I sigh. He’s probably gone to call the front desk and ask for help. Maybe if I close my eyes and wish for it really hard, this will turn into a dream.

There’s a thump that makes me flinch, which also makes me cry out in pain. Then another one. “What are you doing?” I call.

“I’m breaking the door down.”

“Isn’t that a little excessive?”

“Remember our friendly date?” Before another thump comes, I shout that I do. “I told you that, with hairpins and the right attitude, no door is truly locked.”

“I remember,” I confirm.

“Well, count that as one of my lies. I don’t know how to pick a lock, so it’s either this or someone’s going to have to screw the lock off the door. Which one would you prefer?”

With barely any thought, I answer, “Break the door down. But then… close your eyes.”

“You’re joking, right?”

“I have no bra on, I only shaved one of my legs, and I’m covered in your worst nightmare,” I say as I frown at the stick of butter, which is pressed against my ankle.

I hear him chuckle as the thumps continue. On the third thump, the door opens, and my heart rate spikes.